Even Butterflies Rest
by Connecticut Junkie
Summary: A quiet moment for Logan and Jubilee in the aftermath. (Post Uncanny #423, but not completely necessary to read that)


Title: Even Butterflies Rest

Author: Connecticut Junkie (ct_junkie@msn.com)

Summary: A quiet moment in the aftermath for Logan and Jubilee. Post Uncanny X-Men #423. Helpful to have read that, but not necessary.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Wolverine and Jubilee are not mine. Sigh. And I'd treat them better than Marvel does anyhow.

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She wakes up again, for the third time. He is there. "Hey," she whispers, harsh like wind over dry desert sand.

There is movement and warmth before stinging pain in her right arm. He notices the flinch, the grimace on a mouth more suited to smiles. "Sorry," he says, and pulls his hand away from hers. Below a wad of gauze, old wounds reopen. A spot of blood appears on the surface, spreading slowly. Distracted, enthralled, sickened, Logan watches it grow. It doesn't smell entirely like her. He owes Warren everything. And then some.

Jubilee raises the hand that holds hypnotic power over her old friend, and touches the tips of her fingers against his trademark facial hair. She is careful not to put pressure on her palm. Being crucified hurts more than she had imagined it would. "It's okay," she reassures, but his furrowed brow remains. 

"I'll kill whoever did this to you." The veins in his neck pulse with anger. She smirks how time never changes him. Quick to temper; even quicker to care.

Distract him with humor. How easily she falls into a role vacated several years now. "Where's your dorky costume?" The injured hand flaps non-committaly at his dark blue ensemble, trailing a streamer of gauze. 

"Wasn't dorky," he defends.

"Sure," she retorts, stating her position as firm and never yielding. Despite all the protests he may have, she will not be swayed. Her roots are deep, stubborn. She is like him after all.

"I wanted to see you again," he says, after a silence that is all but silent to his ears. The rush of breath, the staccato of her heart, the beep of the monitor she is attached to. All reminding him that she is alive. That he has her back.  "But not like this."

"You take the good, you take the bad," she answers, but is too tired to continue the lyrics to a ridiculous and hopefully forgotten television show. Logan is grateful.

"They almost took it all," he points out, and brushes the hair from her eyes. Long now. As long as their separation. 

"Chill," she says, her fingers sliding along his chiseled, familiar face. "It ain't like we're not familiar with the crucifixion scene."

"Never wanted you to be on the other end."

"Full circles don't have ends," she points out. Manages to poke her tongue out at him. Brief flash of memory, of Hell on Rollerblades, bubble-gum chomping, music blaring, tearing through the mansion and tearing through his life. Youth epitomized.

Then it's gone, and she becomes the young woman she now is. The past can only be revisited; lost time cannot be returned. It should mean more to her than to him, for she has less of it.  He reminds himself that now is not the time to dwell on the things that were, or to agonize over the things he should have done.

 Now he can hold her, guiltily thanking whomever that she didn't end up like that poor friend of hers. Her sleight weight feels like nothing, but he can't lift her too far from the bed. She is tied down in tubes and drips. 

Her fingers curl into the familiar point of his hair, pulling tightly. The words hesitate on his tongue.  He hears them in his mind but cannot find the strength to say it. 

"I know you do," she whispers, resting her forehead on his, and a phrase comes back to him. Latent telepathy. 

He doesn't know how far into his mind she can go, but he doesn't worry. Just drops his shields to let her feel. If she can. If she wants to.

There are tears in her eyes, but to wipe them away means he'd have to let go of her. It is a sacrifice he will not make. Too often he has let her go. 

But she is not thinking of him at the moment. "Angelo," she whispers, choked with emotion. Her eyes slide to the side, to the bed that now sits empty. He presses his face against hers so hard it makes breathing nearly impossible. But she is too emotional to breathe, anyway. 

He kisses her cheek, her temple, the line of her jaw. Her hair is glossy under his calloused fingers and it slips from his touch, the long strands shielding their faces like a curtain of night. 

She is starved for touch, for his touch. For the one person in this horrible world who feels like home. Butterfly kisses on the side of her mouth. But even butterflies rest. His lips are rough in texture, gentle on her own. She finally knows what dichotomy feels like. 

Less than fatherly, more than friendly. Innocently sinful.

She blames the pain medication they have her on. He blames himself. He pulls away, wanting to apologize. Unsure of what it was or what it made him. Afraid to admit; terrified to act again.

But she surprises him. Lightens his heart and finds the dimmest star in the blackest night.

"Dude. What did I tell you before about mouth wash?" 

-end-

That's it. Reviews highly appreciated. 


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